Streetlight
by Nishinn
Summary: Alfred was a simple high school teen working on minimum wage at his local 7/11. All he wanted was a peaceful daydream session away from his hellish life, but it had to be ruined by local punk kid Arthur Kirkland, jerk, rock enthusiast, and was known for punching people he felt like, especially those he liked to bully. And oh yeah, the guy hated Alfred's guts. Punk!Arthur X Alfred


**USUK/UKUS Punk!Arthur x Alfred,, teen AU**

 **WARNINGS: bullying, mentions of physical violence, lots of swearing**

PLOT: Alfred was a simple teen working on minimum wage at his local 7/11. All he wanted was a peaceful daydream session away from his hellish life, but it had to be ruined by local punk kid Arthur Kirkland, jerk, rock enthusiast, and had was known for punching people he felt like, especially those he liked to bully. And oh yeah, the guy hated Alfred's guts.

 **(a/n): Alright, so it took me a solid week to write this because freaking time constraints, but I did it. Somehow, I did it. Yay! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy, and leave a review afterwards if you like it!**

* * *

So Alfred needed a hero—he already had an image in his head.

He had to be strong, agile, and ready to swoop in at a moment's notice. He had to be Alfred's perfect knight in shining armor. He had to be the splitting image of heroism. He had to ride in on a white stallion, through the damned Seven-Eleven doors that Alfred stared at all day, and take him away from his miserable, sleepless, teenage suburban life, fending off all his worst nightmares.

He'd be wearing gold plated armor, his noble steed had to be the best breed in the kingdom; he had to have eyes that shone like stars and a build that would make even Alfred drool. He had to carry his magical blade at all times, always prepared for the fight, always ready to defend him.

Now _that_ was Alfred F. Jones's type of hero.

Alright, so he _may_ be exaggerating a little, but there wasn't much to do at 8:30 pm in a Seven-Eleven on Tuesday night, which was mostly empty save for a grumpy college student eating microwave ramen in the corner.

Alfred himself was quite sleep-deprived. He was a regular 11th grade high-schooler, going to school doing homework, turning in projects, working part-time retail jobs to be able to pay for his own food, tuition, and his mother's hospital bills. And oh yeah, his mother had cancer. Normally he'd have his brother Matthew helping him out, but Matthew was dead. He'd been mugged in an alley four months ago and, apparently, said mugger had a gun.

But that was back in Florida. They'd moved to Oregon, in with his grandparents, who were apparently cheapskate homophobes who supported Nazism, hated their daughter, and were only housing Alfred out of obligation. Lovely.

The old raisins gave him a room and a few occasional bucks, but other than that all he got from them were comments about his weight and sexuality. Nasty comments, one might add.

And where was his father in all this, the man who was supposed to be his hero by default and who should've been the one saving him from his current hell? Well, back in Florida, remarried to heroin.

So, early on, Alfred had resolved to be his own hero, but that could only go so far with his current state in life. He needed someone else to be his hero, to swoop in like Superman and save the day. He needed a Captain America, a Batman, a Thor—you name it.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep and emotional imbalance, but Alfred could just imagine his knight in shining armor riding in through those glass doors, glinting all over, showing off his chiseled features, and rearing up behind his mighty stallion. He'd walk over to the cash register where Alfred was gazing and sighing, and he'd hold out a strong hand with the promise of love and bliss and happily-ever-after, all the while freaking-out the poor college student in the corner.

And then, almost out of his imagination, the doors opened with a resounding _ding!_ And Alfred's pulse sped up.

Into the fluorescent light stepped in… a pasty-white blond dressed in spiky black clothing, a leather jacket, ripped jeans and fingerless gloves, all tied together with ear piercings, black eyeliner, and a scowling face that just screamed _punk_.

Alfred scrambled upright and immediately slipped into the back room just a ways behind the counter.

That was Arthur Kirkland. Arthur. Fucking, Kirkland.

Local punk kid who smoked and punched people and was generally very dangerous to be around. Alfred knew this first-hand. His encounters with the Brit had always involved some sort of bodily harm in all his two months spent in the local high school, and he didn't necessarily _fear_ him, but he liked to avoid gaining another bruise to show off to his mother at all costs.

In the dull fluorescent glow of the backroom, which really wasn't much except for a wooden table and several chairs coupled with a fridge and a bathroom to the side, Alfred rushed to find his co-worker Lovino until, of course, he realized that the room was devoid of any other presence of human life.

Puzzled and slightly winded, Alfred took sight of a yellow post-it note which had been stuck onto the table's surface. Coming closer, he read the hasty scribble of blue-ballpoint pen ink;

 _Jones,  
I'm out early. Cover my shift, alright fucker? Don't groan your ass of yet. I'll cover a shift for you next time you whiny bastard.  
-Vino_

Alfred wondered how he'd missed Lovino sneaking out without him noticing. Then again, he'd been daydreaming for the past thirty minutes or so, so perhaps that had been it.

Great. Now what? Arthur Kirkland was definitely going to buy something—condoms, maybe—and he'd have to be the one to ring him up.

Christ, Alfred was having a really, _really_ bad day.

Arthur Kirkland already hate his guts and would probably beat him to a pulp on sight. And with only the disheveled college student who looked like she didn't give a fuck as a witness, Alfred slowly began to accept his fate as a dead man.

He hoped Matthew appreciated his company in heaven, or wherever else the dead went.

"Oi! Cashie!" Came a tired voice from back in the store. A few impatient taps were heard, but nothing more.

This was it. Arthur was done shopping. Arthur intended to buy those things.

Hah, Alfred almost wished the punk would just book it and never show his face there again, but unfortunately, any lost items would be deducted from Alfred's pay and his mother really needed that money. There was really no way out of it. Jeeze, he might even get fired if Arthur stole enough items, given that it was Alfred's watch.

So with a deep breath, he steeled his nerves, made peace with the scenarios of blood and murder in his sleep-deprived head, and calmly walked out of the safe haven of the breakroom and up to the cash register where his punk nemesis was waiting.

Arthur was looking down, picking idly through his items on the counter. His eyes were hidden by his choppy bangs and Alfred began to hold some hope in the fact that Arthur might not look up at all during the transaction. The punk didn't even start when he grabbed a hold of the first item—a pack of doritos—and Alfred released a breath.

He scanned the chips and set it to the side. Next came another pack of potato chips, two bottles of iced coffee, and then the item he'd been dreading the most—no, not condoms, but microwave ramen in a cup. Or like, "cup-noodles" as Matthew used to call it. Either way, it was mandatory for Alfred to ask one question whenever someone ordered it, otherwise the customer would almost always ask it themselves.

"Do you want me to heat this up for you?"

 _Please don't look up, please don't look up, please don't look up, ple-_

"Yeah, sur- Alfred?"

 _Shit._

"Jones, is that you?"

"I-I'll go heat this up," Alfred said and made to turn, then he felt Arthur's hand grab onto his shoulder, spinning him back around gently and making sure he didn't fall.

"Woah, hold up Jones, the fuck are you doing here?"

Avoiding Arthur's gaze, Alfred's eyes flicked back over to the college girl who was now exiting the door behind him with a resounding _ding!_

Great. Now he had no witness. That CCTV might prove helpful, but Arthur would definitely destroy it after he was done with Alfred. His fate was sealed. He'd die alone.

"Jones, I said what are you _doing_ here?"

Arthur seemed to be staring in disbelief at the Seven-Eleven uniform he was wearing, complete with an ID around his neck and the shirt tucked into his pants. His sharp green eyes glanced all over his form, then to the cash register, then back at the hand still on Alfred's shoulder. Suddenly, his cheeks colored and he immediately pulled away.

Choosing to ignore the gesture, Alfred coughed into a hand and shifted his weight. "I work here," he said flatly.

Again, Arthur looked puzzled. "Work here?"

"Yes. I work here. I cash in peoples' things and restock shelves and earn money so I can eat. I work here."

"I…" Arthur looked like he was at a genuine loss; it was an expression Alfred had never seen from the punk before. He was always either scowling or yelling or smirking arrogantly. Now, however, his green eyes were wide and unsure, his mouth was open enough for a fly to zip in, and his body language was lax and foreign. He looked genuinely distressed, and Alfred had no idea why.

"What?" He said, giving Arthur a look of slight contempt. The microwave, along with the water thermos, was only a little way behind the counter, so Alfred only had to take three steps in order to start preparing Arthur's ramen, which he did.

"I… you… wait," Arthur shook his head, then settled onto an expression of quizzical confusion. "You're telling me you work for a living? To get something to eat?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'd steal from this place if I'm desperate enough, but that's getting taken out of my paycheck anyway so, eh," he shrugged, giving the ramen a single glance before turning back to Arthur.

"I… so your parents don't give you enough money?"

"Divorced. I give my mom money."

"No siblings to give you anything?"

"One dead brother and that's about it. I live on minimum wage, Kirkland, and so does my mom."

"Oh."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His heart seemed to speed up for reasons unknown—perhaps it was the anticipation for any questions he didn't want to answer. At any rate, he really did not want to be in this situation, although it was more preferable to the painful beatings he'd initially expected.

Meanwhile Arthur Kirkland was staring down at his shuffling feet, eyes wide and hands fidgety.

All was quiet for the twenty seconds it took for Alfred to give the ramen a final stir and hand it over to Arthur. When it looked like the punk wasn't going to say anything, Alfred merely shrugged and began to punch in the cereal code for the ramen because the damn bar code wouldn't be scanned. He was ready to print out a receipt when Arthur spoke.

"I'm sorry."

He choked on saliva. "Excuse me?"

"I said I'm sorry, you dumb git," Arthur spoke behind grit teeth, yet the words held no malice. The shorter boy was still looking down but Alfred could see one clear emotion in those hooded green eyes—guilt.

"Alfred… shit, I fucked up. Listen, I honestly thought you were some golden-boy, spoiled brat, rich-kid or whatever. I mean, when you walked into school as the local new kid, you seemed peppy and friendly and people liked you. When I saw you playing guitar in the music room and, well, with skills like that I thought they _had_ to have been paid for. And when I heard you talking to your mum the other day… Christ, you just seemed so damn pampered, and I suppose it irritated me to an extent. I suppose all of those misconceptions were simply solidified whenever you flaunted your arrogance around me. Well, I guess it wasn't really arrogance as much as just self-defense, but, ugh… listen, I fucked up, alright? I'm sorry."

Again, all was silent; two figures stood in quiet contempt alone in a Seven-Eleven. Alfred was the one to break it.

"So let me get this straight. You essentially made my life a living hell for like, four days based on the assumption that I was a pampered asshole because I talked back to you?"

"I said I was sorry, alright!" Arthur was most definitely blushing now, and it was so unnaturally adorable that Alfred just had to smile. Only a bit. He killed it quickly.

"Listen, Kirkland, I've got my own set of problems and you've got yours. I respect that, alright? So maybe just don't make my life more of a hell than it already is and we can go our separate ways. Deal?"

Suddenly, Arthur looked up, his expression a mix of flustered and outraged. "Wh- you're going to forgive me just like that?"

Alfred shrugged nonchalantly for perhaps the fifth time that day. "I just don't want any trouble," He said. "No need to overcomplicate things." He let the printer do its thing and in a few short seconds, had Arthur's food all tucked into a paper bag, the receipt clipped onto it, and the ramen set neatly on the countertop.

"Here's your stuff."

Arthur didn't take the bag. He didn't reach out or look up. His hands kept fidgeting and his eyes were everywhere but on Alfred. Then finally, after seconds of tension and shuffling, Arthur took a breath and set a solid gaze on the cash register.

"I know I can be an asshole," he said with a release of breath. "And I fuck up a lot. But what I did to you, basically bullying someone who's already got it tough—that crosses my morals. I only wanted to fuck up people who deserved it. 'Guess I should've listened to my mum when she told me I couldn't be one to judge. Ha. The point is, I want to make it up to you."

Alfred blinked. "Make it up to me…?" Was what he was hearing even real? Arthur Kirkland, the local troubled-kid who had legends of rape and murder surrounding him, actually apologizing to him? No way. Unreal. Arthur was the villain in his life.

Then again, villains did occasionally redeem themselves. And in a villain's eyes, they were the hero.

Arthur bit his lip. "Have you eaten dinner yet? Perhaps I could treat you to some food. I mean, not this Seven-Eleven junk. Maybe like… I don't know, Wendy's?" His eyes finally flickered up to meet Alfred's, and for the first time ever, he saw a different side to the punk.

He saw a vulnerable side. It wasn't just wordplay and morals. It was actual, legitimate guilt that Arthur was feeling. Everything he said was reflected in those eyes, and Alfred felt like he'd suddenly been snapped awake from a trace he didn't even realize he was in.

"I don't usually eat dinner," Was all he said.

"What? Why?"

 _Oh gee, I don't know! Money, time constraints, weight gain, among other things._ "Bills to pay."

Well it wasn't a lie.

Arthur's eyes flickered back and forth again. "Alright, when does your shift end? I'll get you some dinner for tonight."

"Arthur, you really don't have t-"

"I want to. Now, when does it end?"

Alfred sighed. Arthur _did_ seem genuine and determined, and although he still half-expected the guy to shove him into an alley and beat the ever-living crap out of him, he still found the punk's adorable blush to be severely endearing.

 _Well,_ thought Alfred's sleep-deprived brain. _It wouldn't be too bad a way to go. Seduced by Arthur Kirkland and then promptly murdered by him. Why not?_

He glanced at the clock above the microwave, squinting a bit at the tiny numbers.

"Uh, my co-worker Rajesh should be here by ten. So around then."

"That's twenty minutes away," Said Arthur. He bit his thumb, looked around, then finally began to relax as he took his ramen in both hands. "I suppose I could keep you some company while I eat this."

The punk hopped up on the countertop, right in front of Alfred, then took his ramen from the side and began to slurp from the cup with assistance from a plastic spork.

"Uh…" Alfred said dumbly. In all honestly, he didn't know what to make of the situation. He had to be alone in Seven-Eleven with Arthur Kirkland, the school rebel, for twenty minutes and then go get dinner with him. At Wendy's. He'd rather prefer McDonald's though.

"Hey," Arthur said through a mouthful of ramen. He swallowed thickly and turned his body to give Alfred a sidelong look. "You're friends with that Japanese kid, yeah? Honda was it? Kiku Honda?"

"Uh, yes. I-I think. I don't know. I talk to him. Not sure if we're friends."

"Oh? How about that French bastard?"

"Francis?"

"Yeah. Hate him."

"Yeah. Not obvious at all." Alfred had seen the way Arthur treated Francis, how he took every opportunity to smack the French exchange-student upside the head. He yelled and picked fights with the guy, and up to that moment he still wasn't sure why. Francis was a generally nice guy to Alfred—helped him with essays and occasionally came to chat. They weren't friends by any means, but Alfred appreciated the company.

"Huh. You're one sarcastic bastard, aren't you?"

Alfred shrugged at that. He was still a bit on edge but Arthur didn't seem ready to throttle him at the moment, so he figured he was still in the green.

The punk took another slurp of ramen and turned his body all the way so he was sitting sideways on the countertop. Now he could look Alfred full in the face. "So you got any friends other than them?" He asked.

"They're more like people who happen to talk to me. I don't think anyone considers me a friend in that school."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, those of which Alfred began to realize were quite impressively thick. "Your old school then, from wherever you're from. Had any friends there?"

"Yeah, but no one I'm particularly close with."

"Hah! You? No close friends? You may be a depressed bastard but you're still peppy and bubbly and you talk to people. If you're like that now, then I can only imagine how genuinely extroverted you were back then!"

"Well, look at it this way," Alfred leaned forward on the countertop, using his hands to support his weight. "You hated me right on the spot for my mouth and attitude. Same goes for everyone else who's ever been around me. People have always seen me as an incompetent dickhead, so I don't see how you think anyone could've liked me after a first impression, much less tried to take the time to know me."

Both of the punk's eyebrows shot up. He seemed impressed, if a little taken aback. A small smile graced his lips as he took another sip of ramen. "Point taken," he said with a tilt of his head. "But you seem interesting enough. You're not dumb, although you make it seem like you are."

"How so?"

"One glance at your science and math papers is enough of a testimony, my dear lad."

Alfred blinked. "You've glanced at my test papers?"

"Oh, who hasn't?"

"W-what does that mean?"

Then Arthur laughed, punctuating it with a shake of his arm causing him to come close to nearly spilling his ramen. Alfred frowned at this. People were peeping in on his papers?

"Alfred, Alfred, dear boy," the punk said with a breath, setting his ramen down on the counter. "Cheating is very much a thing that exists, especially when people don't know jack-shit about a test. I do say you've helped me pass math and science with flying colours, but unfortunately you were no help whatsoever with English. You might want to take a look-see at _my_ English papers the next time, hm?"

Alfred shook his head, standing upright in disbelief. "No way! I don't _cheat,_ Kirkland." He growled.

Arthur laughed again, throwing his head back as he did so. Alfred had been expecting him to be mad, or at the very least feel challenged, but he was getting reactions completely opposite to what he's had in mind.

"You've got a lot to learn if you're to survive in that school for the next three years of your life, lad. Ha ha!"

Alfred was still outraged, of course, yet he couldn't help but smirk. Even the boy's laugh sounded explicitly British. There wasn't any particular way he could describe it, but his wording, mannerisms and laughter, despite being presented as his punk side, still held an aura of pure _something_ that just screamed "British!"

And that wasn't even mentioning his accent. Christ, his accent…

"God, you are the most British-sounding person I've ever met," Alfred blurted, and nearly blushed too, were it not for Arthur pausing suddenly and then snorting immediately after.

"Well I'm from _Britain,_ in case you haven't picked up on that little fact yet," Arthur said with an amused smirk. "Well, England to be exact."

Alfred gave his head a little tilt, then slouched back down, putting his hands on the countertop as he did so. "What," he asked. "Like, Manchester?"

"Where did you figure that?"

"Well, you swear an awful lot."

"Tsk, tsk, my dear boy. We call that stereotyping."

"Well do you deny that you swear a lot? 'Cause if you do, we call that _lying."_

"Touchè."

Alfred laughed at that; the exchange wasn't even remotely funny, but he felt compelled to do so for some reason. He felt light. He felt positive. Somehow, his new ex-enemy punk had managed to turn the initially tense and depressing mood around, if just a little bit.

Arthur didn't laugh, but he offered a small smile back. "Well, I'm actually from London, thank you very much. Got three older brothers, lived with 'em and my parents."

"Lived?"

"Lived. Brothers were jackasses, probably picked that up from the 'rents. The two were always at each-others' throats anyway, so no one really complained when they got divorced. Mum met a fine new Yankee bloke, they hit it off, and before I knew it she was dragging me off to America, to—how did she say it?—live a new, American life!"

Alfred snorted. He may be American, through and true, but even _that_ sounded ridiculously fake to his ears. Arthur went on.

"Well, the dick left us half a year later. That was two years ago. I was pretty much the only sibling still without a job nor was I in uni, so mom took me and now we're stuck here."

"Yeesh," Alfred grimaced. "D'you ever want to go back to England?"

Arthur hummed in thought as he picked up his cup of ramen and stirred a little. "Well, I wouldn't be opposed to going back, but I'm not begging to do so either. The sense of repression's the same everywhere, you know? Mum isn't exactly keen on returning ever, so I suppose I'll be here for quite the while."

Alfred nodded and was silent for a bit. He glanced back over to the clock. Less than ten minutes had passed. Arthur was, once again, the one to break the momentary quiet.

"Well, you're a newbie here. Where are you from, exactly?" The punk asked. He began slurping directly from his cup now without any need for his spork. Alfred supposed it had gotten cold enough.

"Florida," He replied. Over the course of two seconds, Alfred tossed around in his head the decision of whether or not to tell Arthur a bit of background information. Well, he _did_ share some of his own story. It was only fair Alfred share a bit of his.

"Lived with my parents and twin brother. I guess things were fine, up until we found out dad was doing drugs. Mom was getting pretty stressed-out with everything, dad wasn't quitting, then one day we just found out Matthew had gotten mugged and shot in an alley, or something like that. Ah, Matthew's my brother by the way. Then, yeah, they got divorced, and maybe a week later we found out she had cancer. Didn't really have any money, so we moved back in with her parents here in New Orleans!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Their rich?" He asked.

"Oh, who knows? They're cheap. They don't give mom nearly enough for chemo and give me about a dollar a week. It sucks to go home to them so this night-job is kind of a haven in itself."

Arthur nodded and hummed again. He continued sipping his ramen, or what was left of it, then turned back to Alfred. He regarded the Seven-Eleven employee with a look that was hard to read. It made Alfred a bit nervous. Then, a small smile crossed the punk's features and he crossed his ripped-jean-covered legs. "So, you like Linkin Park?"

…,.,,

By the time Alfred's Indian friend Rajesh arrived, he was flopped on the counter laughing his ass off while Fallout Boy was playing inappropriately loud on the store speakers. Arthur was behind him, phone plugged into the speaker jack, head-banging in time to _Immortals_ with his fingers playing appropriately-chorded air guitar.

The two looked up at the other employee's entrance, but their euphoria was completely unfazed despite the partly mortified-partly confused look of Rajesh.

Alfred gave a laugh and told Arthur to cut the music, who promptly quit the air guitar, then pulled his phone out from under the counter and tugged it off the wire.

"Hey, Raj!" Alfred called while still chuckling.

"Who the fuck is this and why were you doing that?"

"The cameras don't record sound and you know I won't get in trouble. C'mon, don't act like you haven't done this before."

The Indian teen opened his mouth as if to say something, then immediately closed it when nothing came out. He shook his head and began to make his way into the back room. "You know what? Never mind. Do you what you want." He paused as he reached the back of the counter. He was looking at Arthur who was staring back with a small smirk.

"Who's this again?"

"Arthur," Alfred replied simply.

Rajesh rolled his eyes. "Sure, sure. Just get out of here," he dismissed them and walked tiredly into the breakroom.

Alfred glanced back up at Arthur and gave a breathy laugh. "Wooh, man, that was awesome!" He said.

"Seriously, you've never done this before?" Arthur questioned. He gave his phone a few taps before switching it off and tucking it back into his jacket. "I mean really."

"Well, I did get to play Green Day once, and Nirvana I think, but I've never really had the balls or motivation to, just, _blast_ out music on my own accord before. Besides, the place usually has at least _some_ customers. Jeez, you just walked in and somehow we're deserted for half an hour! You sure you're not involved in any sort of witchcraft?"

"Ha! If only. Believe me, I've tried running into platform walls back in London as a child and all it got me were bruises."

Alfred chuckled again, straightening up. "Still can't believe someone like you's a fan of Harry Potter," he said. "But I _do_ buy the fact that you're a Slytherin."

"Gryffindor can go suck my dick," Arthur said matter-of-factly.

"Hey!" Alfred teased. "Gryffindor's great!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You're a Hufflepuff. You've no right to defend Gryffindor."

"Jesus Christ!" Came an annoyed voice from the backroom. "Just get out of here already, damn nerds!"

Alfred let out a small chuckle and Arthur crossed his arms. "What's his problem?" The punk questioned.

"Ah, I think it was his finals today," Alfred said. "Hey Raj! Did you fail?"

"None of your business!" Rajesh hollered back.

"Hmm, he's usually pretty nice. I'm gonna bet he failed. Welp, I guess I'll go get changed, so you wait here, okay?"

Arthur nodded and waved him away, pulling out his phone in order to tap around mindlessly while Alfred sped away into the breakroom. In less than a few minutes, Alfred was back dressed in faded red converse shoes, plain jeans, and a brown hoodie with a design which reminded Arthur of an aviator's jacket. Looking closer, the punk found that it wasn't a hoodie at all, but an actual legitimate jacket made of leather with black fur around the neck.

"Woah, is that legitimate?" Arthur gawked.

"Yeah, it was my grandpa's brother's, I think. Never met him, and we don't really talk about him, but I see photos of him at home. He was eight years older than my grandpa, making him about twenty-one or so during World War II, and I'm pretty sure there was one photo where he was standing next to a Mustang airplane dated back to 1942."

Arthur snorted. "There's a shorter way of telling me your grandpa's brother was a war veteran, you know."

"Yeah, well," Alfred shrugged. "My way's the funner way."

" _Funner_ 's not a word, you git."

"I don't think _git_ is one either."

"Is too!"

Alfred chuckled. "Man, you get pissed pretty easy."

"Ha, I'm certain your bruises are well-acquainted with that fact."

Alfred hummed in amusement and looked to where Rajesh was just emerging from the breakroom, now dressed in his Seven-Eleven uniform. He turned back to Arthur whose scowl was now fading.

"Come on, let's go. I believe you promised me dinner?"

"Nothing expensive," Arthur warned. "There's a Wendy's a few blocks down and a McDonalds up the street. You choose."

"Mickey D's it is for me!"

"Typical," Arthur rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Alright, let's go."

…,,

Fortunately, the McDonald's up the street was open twenty-four hours, and Alfred and Arthur walked in side-by-side into the warm glow of florescent fast-food chain lighting.

The place wasn't all that crowded, with about four people in line and only five or six tables occupied. It was a slow night for almost everyone in town, it seemed. Alfred himself was feeling a tad drowsy despite his definite mastery of the three-hours-of-sleep-a-weekday technique.

Outside, the streets were dim and empty, aided only by the orange glow of streetlights that were far and few between; the only other lighting was the flickering glow of the McDonald's sign perched on a pole.

As soon as they stepped in, Arthur had told him to get a table and he'd be the one to order. Alfred had told him to get a large cheeseburger, large fries and a coffee—a request which Arthur had given a quizzical look but chose not to question.

Soon, Alfred was seated at a table for two next to one of the large glass window-walls and was watching Arthur walk up to the cashier—hands in his leather jacket, chin up, and stride confident. The cashier, a blond teenage girl who was probably also working part-time for extra cash, gave Arthur a look of slight apprehension as he gave his order. Then, her face morphed into one of exasperation. Arthur said something back, almost shouted, but Alfred couldn't decipher the words. The cashier gave him another tired look and held her hand up like she was explaining something.

Arthur threw his head back in a groan, then turned to look at Alfred who promptly jumped in his seat. Narrowed green eyes scanned him for a few seconds, before turning back to the cashier and saying something which brought relief to the girl's face. She tapped away into her monitor, printed out a receipt, then got to work on the order.

Not five minutes later, Arthur was walking back with a tray filled with delicious-smelling fast food.

Alfred licked his lips as the tray was set down in front of him and the punk took his seat. He dove for the wrapped burger and fries, and saw that Arthur ordered a simple pack of nuggets and iced tea. The only other cup left on the tray was what he assumed to be his coffee, but then Arthur said, "It's hot chocolate."

"Oh."

 _OH._

Right. They didn't serve coffee at night. That must've been what Arthur almost fought the cashier over for. She must've been trying to explain that they didn't have coffee and Arthur was questioning their policies—albeit a bit too aggressively.

The definite look of realization and mortification that began to dawn on Alfred's face was cue for Arthur to belt out a small giggle.

"She told me if I wanted coffee at this hour I'd go to a Starbucks," he said with a hint of amusement, a hand under his chin as he stared at Alfred with that smirk in place. "I'll get you some Starbucks later, if you'd like. I asked them if they had some hot chocolate instead and she agreed to serve it even though she technically wasn't supposed to."

Alfred groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. "God, I am so sorry," he apologized. "I'm a total fucking idiot. Christ, I really do need more sleep, ha ha." He peaked at Arthur through his fingers and was relieved to find the punk still smiling, looking down on him from his chin's perch on his hand.

"So, Starbucks later?"

Alfred was about to protest, saying the dinner was enough, but then he shut his mouth and raised an eyebrow, offering a coy smile. "Well, you do owe me a phone, don't you?"

Arthur's eyes widened at that, and Alfred chuckled, then they narrowed but he kept his smirk in check. "It was an _accident,_ Jones," he said fondly.

"Yeah, well, you didn't regret stepping on my phone and freaking _breaking_ it somehow," the American pointed out.

And it was true. It was true that the incident had been a complete accident. Alfred had had his phone in hand when Arthur had targeted him for another round of aggravation. The punk had given him a square punch in the face which must've made him drop his phone, then he stomped forward and broke the thing into a hundred pieces with his heavy leather boots, yet he didn't even realize it was there. The action surprised them both but Arthur used it to his advantage pretty quickly.

Needless to say, Alfred was now stuck with a hand-me-down Nokia from his mother which still used keyboard buttons. It was remarkable how it'd survived this long, but then again, it was Nokia, so it wasn't really too big of a surprise.

Arthur snorted. "Well, I don't think I'll ever have the money to pay you back for that bloody phone, but if you're going to insist, then would you accept frequent random dinners and coffees when I can get them?"

Alfred blinked. "Wait, you're serious? Woah, is the almighty Arthur Kirkland actually offering to buy me stuff?"

"Oh, shut it you git. Like I said, I owe you, so I suppose I'll just have to give you free dinner for a while. Better than giving you a hundred-or-so bucks, which I don't have."

"Oh?" Alfred teased. "You want to take me out to dinner every night? How romantic!"

He laughed and Arthur blushed furiously, then straightened up in his seat. "I-I'm not—as, ha, a-as if!" He stuttered, tripping over his words. Man, he was adorable. "It's just dinner, bloody wanker! It's not like you're cute as all fucking hell and I don't mind because I very much mind and you're obnoxious as fuck but I'm bound here and I have my hands tied and I fucking owe you, so—yeah!"

Alfred had paused during the punk's waterfall of words, but as soon as it was over he busted out again. "Oh man, chill," he said with a chuckle. "I was just joking with you, ha ha! But seriously though, thanks. I'm not gonna hold you to that though. Feel free to just, you know, not buy me stuff. I really was joking; this dinner is enough."

He was smiling, not laughing this time, making sure Arthur got that he was being sincere.

"You… No, I couldn't. I have to. I owe you." Arthur's bushy brows furrowed. He crossed his arms.

"No you don't, because I said so," Alfred said. "You don't have to get me anything. Hell, you didn't even have to get me this dinner. Really, that apology's enough, and thank you for the food."

"Wow, you really are a Hufflepuff," Arthur muttered with a bitter laugh. "How do you just forgive people that easily? I made your life hell and suddenly you're okay with me now?"

"That was for like, four days, Arthur. It's really no big deal. No point in holding a grudge, especially since we're cool now."

At first, Arthur didn't respond. He flipped open his McNuggets box, stared at it for a total of two seconds, then sighed. "The world would be much better if more people were like you, you know." He said.

"What, Hufflepuffs?" Alfred questioned humorously. He began to unwrap his burger as well.

"Yeah, something of the sort. Thank you."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Existing, I suppose."

Alfred tilted his head, giving Arthur a look. The green-eyed punk didn't look up from his food, but he could tell he was listening. "Thanks to you too."

"Oh? What for?"

"Knowing I exist, I guess."

And with that, Arthur smiled, picking up a plastic fork and driving it through a nugget. "Believe me, Alfred, you're quite hard to forget."

* * *

 **(a/n): Hope you enjoyed that! This whole thing is actually part of a larger AU story I had planned. Basically, it covers everything from how they meet and would just descend into snippets of friendship and romantic development. I don't really have the time to commit to that writing project at the moment, because school and whatnot, but when I do have the time I really would love to make it happen.**

 **If you guys think you'd want to see more of this, feel free to drop a review! Thanks for reading!**

 **~Nish**


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